The Echo Killing: A gripping debut crime thriller you won’t be able to put down!

‘Ignore her, Carlo!’ Harper yelled hastily. ‘It’s nothing.’

Laughing, she tugged Bonnie’s arm. ‘Behave yourself.’

‘He’d do it,’ Bonnie assured her. ‘I know he thinks you’re cute.’

‘I’m not cute.’ For some reason, Harper found the assertion outrageous. ‘I’m introverted and I never remember to wear makeup. I’ve seen the women Carlo hangs out with. I am definitely not his type.’

Bonnie waved her beer. ‘Everyone is Carlo’s type. But if he’s not yours …’ She looked around the mostly empty bar. ‘There’s always Junior.’

‘Will you stop?’ Harper pleaded. ‘Look. I promise, I’ll sex someone up. Soon.’

‘Do the cop,’ Bonnie ordered. ‘You like him. What’s he like? I’ll bet he’s all Texas Rangery. Tall with lots of muscles; not much of a man for words. Takes command of the situation.’

‘Shut up.’ Harper’s face heated.

‘Oh my God, I’m right.’ Bonnie’s laugh was delighted. ‘I want to meet this guy.’

Harper was starting to feel dizzy. She wasn’t sure whether it was the mai tais or the conversation.

‘We have got to stop talking about this,’ she moaned, lying down on the table. The felt top was soft and she turned to press her face against it. It smelled soothingly of chalk and dust.

‘Don’t fall asleep on the pool table, Harper. Junior might carry you home and have his wicked way with you.’

Bonnie leaned over her, the tips of her long hair tickling Harper’s face.

‘Anyway, it’s decided. You’ve got to get busy with this cop. And soon.’ She smoothed Harper’s hair gently away from her face. It felt nice. Harper closed her eyes.

‘It’ll fix all that ails you,’ Bonnie promised.

Harper thought of Luke Walker standing there holding that gun. And wondered if maybe she was right.

Chapter Six

The next afternoon, Harper arrived at the police station at four o’clock, feeling like a truck had run over her face during the night.

At the edge of downtown on a quiet street, the police headquarters looked like a nineteenth-century jail, which is exactly what it was. Neat rows of small, arched windows marched across the brick walls, all of them overlooking a sun-baked parking lot that was, at this moment, completely full.

Muttering under her breath, Harper found a parking place on the street around the corner and fed the meter before hurrying out of the bright sunlight to take a shortcut through the blessed shade of the Colonial Park Cemetery.

Sheltered by the long branches of ancient oak trees, the old burial ground behind the station was more park than cemetery. Ever since she was a child, she’d loved it. You could read the city’s history in its inscriptions:

James Wilde.

He fell in a duel on the 16th of January, 1815, by the hand of a man who, a short time ago, would have been friendless but for him.

At twelve, she’d been outraged for that man. Today, she would happily have been buried next to him.

Her gravestone could read: ‘Harper McClain, died of a hangover. What an idiot.’

She and Bonnie had stayed at the bar after closing, drinking with Carlo and Junior, and playing half-hearted, quickly abandoned games of pool. It must have been four in the morning by the time she got home.

She’d awoken at noon, cotton-mouthed and hammer-headed, to find her cat, Zuzu, lying on her chest like an eight-pound tumor.

‘Get off me, you evil fluffball,’ she’d murmured, shoving the tabby to one side.

The cat waited until she drifted off, then got back on her again, purring maliciously.

At that point, Harper had given up and climbed out of bed. Four ibuprofen and a gallon of water later, she’d felt able to go to work.

When she pushed open the heavy, bulletproof door and walked out of the heat into the police station’s icy air conditioning, she didn’t remove her sunglasses.

The front-desk clerk looked up as she approached.

‘Harper!’ she trilled. ‘You look mysterious today.’

Barely over five feet tall, with glossy black curls and a curvy figure that tested the buttons of her navy blue desk uniform, Darlene Wilson’s skin was so flawless it was impossible to determine her age, but Harper guessed she was in her mid-thirties.

‘Please, Darlene,’ Harper said pleadingly. ‘If you love me at all. Whisper.’

Darlene’s booming laugh threatened to split her skull.

‘All right, honey. I hear you,’ she said, lowering her voice a fraction. ‘Were you at a party last night or something?’

‘Let’s just say drinks with an old friend got out of hand.’

As she spoke, Harper flipped rapidly through the thick stack of overnight police reports.

Burglary, burglary, burglary, public nuisance, DUI, burglary, stabbing …

She paused, scanning the description of the last one.

At 0400 hours, a 34-year-old male did enter the address and proceed to utilize a sharp bladed instrument against a 32-year-old female identified as his former spouse …

‘Male friend or female friend?’ Darlene prodded.

Harper turned a page. ‘Not the kind of friend you’re thinking about.’

Darlene made a tutting sound. ‘That’s a shame.’

‘I would like to know,’ Harper said, without looking up, ‘why everyone is so fascinated by my love life all of a sudden.’

Arching one expressive eyebrow, Darlene turned to her computer.

‘No reason,’ she said.

It took Harper about ten seconds to decide against covering the stabbing. Baxter hated domestic violence stories. Today, she didn’t have the strength for an argument.

Returning that report to the stack, she flipped through the rest, making a couple of notes. She was nearly finished when Darlene held up her hand.

‘Oh, honey, I almost forgot.’

The hint of warning in her voice made Harper look up.

‘The lieutenant wants you to see him in his office.’

‘Now?’ Harper’s brow creased. ‘Did he say why?’

‘Not exactly.’ Darlene leaned closer. ‘All I know is, everyone’s talking about the shooting last night. They say you got involved.’

Her heart sinking, Harper slid the stack of paperwork back across the counter.

She should have known the lieutenant would hear about it.

‘How pissed off is he? Scale of one to ten.’

‘Oh, you know what he’s like.’ Darlene busied herself straightening papers. ‘He likes having something to complain about.’

For a tantalizing second, Harper contemplated slipping out the door and back to the newspaper, but she didn’t want the lieutenant tracking her down. He’d done it before. Once, when she’d ignored his summons, he’d sent motorcycle police to pull her over and escort her back, blue lights flashing.

‘Damn.’

Reluctantly, she trudged to the security door leading to the back offices. With a sympathetic smile, Darlene pushed the button releasing the lock.

The shrill buzz it emitted was a sound-blade in Harper’s hungover head, repeatedly stabbing her cerebellum. Wincing, she pulled the door open.

On the other side, a long corridor stretched the length of the building. Windowless and shadowy, it was lined on either side by offices. She passed the 911 dispatch room with its glowing bank of computers. Then several sergeants’ offices – each small and crowded, all of them empty at the moment.

She was halfway down the corridor when two detectives in lightweight summer suits approached her, talking quietly. Spotting her, one nudged the other.

Detective Ledbetter’s smile took up his whole, round face. Next to him, Detective Julie Daltrey was grinning mischievously. She was ten years younger and a head shorter than Ledbetter, with dark brown skin and endearing dimples.

When Harper reached them, the two stopped, blocking her way.

‘Oh hello, Officer McClain,’ Detective Daltrey said, as Ledbetter snickered. ‘I hear you’re joining the force.’

‘Oh, fuck me running.’ She glared at them. ‘Is this how it’s going to be?’

‘Do me a favor,’ Daltrey goaded her. ‘Say, “Stop or I’ll shoot.” I want to judge your technique.’

‘No, that’s not what she said,’ Ledbetter reminded her. ‘It was “You’re surrounded”.’

They guffawed. Daltrey bent over double, clutching her ribs.

Harper had heard enough.

‘Will you please get out of my way?’ Lowering her shoulder she shoved her way past them with such force they had to jump aside to avoid being knocked down. ‘Don’t you have murderers to catch?’

‘Yeah, but you can do that for us,’ Daltrey said. ‘We’re taking the rest of the day off.’

Their laughter followed her all the way down the hall.

Harper knew this was only the beginning. Nobody on the planet enjoys ridicule more than a cop. They never tired of it. Last night she’d basically pinned a bullseye on her back.

She was grateful when she reached the door at the end of the hall where the name ‘Lieutenant Robert Smith’ was written on the sign outside.

Taking off her sunglasses, Harper stuffed them in her bag. Then, letting out a deep breath, she tapped her knuckles against the door.

‘It’s Harper.’

‘Get in here.’ The voice was a low, baritone growl.

Steeling herself, she opened the door, already launching into her defense.

‘Look, Lieutenant, last night wasn’t my fault.’

‘I’ll be the judge of that.’

Lieutenant Robert Smith was about fifty years old, with thick, graying hair and a square jaw made to take a punch. He was six foot two and, even sitting at a desk, he dominated a room. His charcoal suit looked expensive, as did his dark blue silk tie.

He was one of those men who, even when no cigar was present, looked as if they ought to be holding one.

As she approached the desk, he listed the charges against her in an icy voice.

‘So you called out three armed men, while wearing no Kevlar and not carrying a weapon. You then impersonated a police officer when those three criminals threatened you. Am I summing this up correctly? And if I am, how is any of that not your fault?’

‘I was improvising.’ Dropping into one of the faux leather chairs in front of his desk, Harper pressed her fingertips against her pounding forehead. ‘I thought they were going to kill that stupid cop.’

‘That stupid cop is an experienced officer of the law.’ Smith’s voice rose. Harper winced. ‘He is trained to carry and use a standard, police-issue semi-automatic firearm, and to defend himself in dangerous situations. He was wearing a government-approved bulletproof vest. You were carrying a notebook.’

‘True,’ she conceded. ‘But they were about to blow your highly trained officer’s stupid head off.’ His face hardened, but she plowed ahead stubbornly. ‘Lieutenant, he was looking in the wrong direction. It is true that I could have yelled, “Hey, idiotic cop. They’re over here.” And they would have shot at me anyway. So I tried to buy time until your inexplicably delayed backup arrived on the scene to keep the residents of Thirty-Ninth Street safe from three wanted killers.’ She held up her notepad. ‘By the way, do you have any comment on the reason for that delay?’

The lieutenant opened his mouth and then shut it again.

‘Dammit, Harper. How do you always manage to turn everything around so I’m the bad guy?’

He still sounded a bit heated, but the edge had left his voice.

Harper flashed him an apologetic half-smile.

‘I learned from the best, Lieutenant.’

‘Flattery won’t help you today, young lady.’ He shook his finger at her. ‘In all seriousness, you could have got yourself killed. Walker told me everything.’

‘That narc,’ Harper muttered.

‘He is paid to narc,’ he reminded her tartly.

Before she could argue, he leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk.

‘Why’d you do it, Harper? I try to look out for you. But I can’t protect you if you walk into a bullet. You understand that, right?’

There was no more anger in his voice. Harper’s defensiveness slipped away.

‘I’m sorry, Lieutenant,’ she said. ‘It all happened so fast. Believe me, I know it was dangerous. I promise I’ll be more careful.’

Smith’s expression softened.

‘I don’t want you to get hurt.’

‘I know,’ Harper said, adding remorsefully. ‘And I didn’t mean what I said about Luke. He was great out there. He saved my life.’

‘Luke’s one of my best,’ Smith said. ‘And he didn’t come here to “narc”, as you say. He came here because he was concerned.’

Harper said nothing, but the idea of Luke worrying about her was curiously pleasing.

‘Well.’ Smith’s brow creased. ‘Were you injured? You look pale.’

‘I went out drinking with Bonnie last night.’ She rubbed her temples remorsefully. ‘Overdid it. I feel like crap.’

‘Ah.’ His expression changed to one of almost paternal indulgence. ‘Were you at that hippy bar where she works?’

‘It’s not a hippy bar,’ Harper said, although it kind of was.

‘I hope you didn’t drive home.’

She rolled her eyes. ‘Of course not.’

It was always like this. He talked to her like she was a teenager and before long she started acting like one.

He picked up his pen from the leather desk blotter.

‘Before I forget, Pat’s after me to get you to come to dinner.’ He glanced at her. ‘You free on Sunday? It’d make her happy.’

Harper brightened. His wife was an amazing cook. ‘If there’s any chance she might make her chicken and dumplings, I think I can be free on Sunday.’

‘She’ll be happy to hear that,’ he said gruffly. ‘I always tell her you’re fine, but she likes to see you for herself.’

He grew serious again.

‘Now, look, Harper, can I tell the deputy chief that the crime reporter from our esteemed local newspaper has agreed to stop impersonating an officer at crime scenes for the foreseeable future? Will you at least give me that?’

‘I suppose I can agree to stop breaking that particular law,’ she agreed. ‘I really am sorry. I had to think fast, and I wanted to keep Officer Dumbass alive.’

The lieutenant’s eyes held a look that was equal parts affection and exasperation.

‘Well, Officer Dumbass owes you one, and I’ve made sure he knows it.’ He flipped open a file on his desk and put on a pair of wire-framed glasses. ‘Now then. Get your pen out. The official statement is as follows: Backup was delayed because they required a helicopter in an effort to locate and isolate the suspects. Officers approached on foot from the first crime scene in an attempt to ascertain the location of the suspects, and in an effort to avoid loss of innocent life. Undercover officers arrived first on scene, but awaited arrival of all parties. Said undercover officers have been investigating the three suspects for several weeks, as part of a project to curtail drug dealing in the area.’

After jotting this down, Harper glanced at him. ‘You got enough evidence to throw the book at those guys?’

‘Off the record?’

She nodded.

‘Oh, yeah. We’ve got them.’ He closed the file. ‘That will be all, Officer McClain.’

‘Oh hell.’ Harper stood up. ‘I’m never going to live this down, am I?’

His smile told her everything.

‘I believe they’re having a badge made for you upstairs.’

It was nearly five by the time Harper left the police station, half-running to her car. She’d have to hurry to make it to the newspaper’s offices in time to file for the early edition.

But five o’clock is a bad time to be in a rush and, as she pulled out onto Habersham Street, she immediately found herself trapped in bumper-to-bumper traffic.

Swearing under her breath, she hit the brakes and fell into line.

As traffic inched along, she replayed the meeting with the lieutenant in her head.

She wasn’t surprised Luke went straight to Smith. He knew how close she and the lieutenant were, and he’d wanted Smith to put the fear of God in her.

Harper’s own father wasn’t really in her life anymore. They spoke a few times a year, and that was more than enough for her.

Now that he lived up north and had a young family, it was easier than ever to forget he even existed.

Besides, Smith had filled that role for her for many years. Together with his wife, he’d helped her through her teens, fed her when the money ran short and remained close to her even now. She was grateful for them both.

No matter how old she got, Smith still saw her as a child in need of protection. In part because the day they’d met was seared on both their memories forever.

He was the cop who took the phone from her hand the day her mother was murdered.

Chapter Seven

When Harper arrived at the newsroom twenty minutes later, the day shift was already wrapping up their final articles. Editors were making the usual demands, issuing low-key threats. In the bustle, no one paid any attention as she made her way to the battered black office chair and switched on her police scanner.

The familiar crackle and drone of official voices filled the air.

She was turning on her computer when the writer at the desk in front of hers rolled his chair back and swung around to face her.

‘Hey.’

Harper glanced at him. ‘What’s up, DJ?’

David J. Gonzales earned his nickname after announcing that his newspaper byline must include his middle initial.

‘It’s an important part of my name,’ he’d explained earnestly, to anyone who would listen.

At twenty-three years old, and on his first-ever newspaper job, he had no idea why this was so hilarious to the paper’s hardened old-timers.

At first they’d referred to him as David J in all circumstances. ‘Is David J coming?’ ‘Have you seen David J?’

Over time, that shrank to his initials, and he’d been DJ to everyone at the paper ever since.

‘Baxter’s looking for you,’ he said. ‘Where you been?’

An unruly mop of thick, dark hair overshadowed his glasses and round, jovial face.

‘Cop shop.’

‘Huh. She said she tried to call you.’

‘Oh crap. Did she?’ Harper dug through her bag until she found her phone. The message on the screen blinked an accusation.

Ten missed calls.

‘Balls. I forgot to turn the ringer on.’

‘Again?’ DJ shot her a look. ‘She’s going to kill you.’

‘Good. At least that’ll give me something to write about,’ she said snappishly.

Half-standing, she looked to the front of the room, but the city editor’s desk was empty.

She sat down again. ‘What does she want?’

DJ shrugged. He’d missed a spot shaving and the dark whiskers stood out against his tawny skin like a fingerprint.

‘Dunno. She’s on the warpath about something.’

‘Yeah, but that’s every day.’

‘True.’ Seeming to notice her suddenly, he took in the dark circles under her eyes and her unhealthy pallor. ‘You look terrible. What’d you get up to last night?’

Harper typed her login – a machine-gun rattle of keys.

‘Demon alcohol is destroying my life,’ she informed him solemnly. ‘I need to find Jesus.’

DJ grinned. ‘My mom knows where he is if you’re really looking for him. She also has an excellent lock on the Virgin Mary’s location.’

With that, he shoved his chair forward and around in a surprisingly accurate move that propelled him precisely as far as his own desk.

DJ was only four years younger than Harper, but they were four really long years. When he’d first started at the paper, he was like the kid brother she never wanted, and she’d blamed Baxter bitterly from day one for putting his desk next to hers. He was so needy – constantly asking questions. It drove her crazy.

Gradually, though, he’d got better at his job and, although she couldn’t put her finger on when it happened, at some point she’d decided she liked him after all.

Pulling out her notes, she began typing up a quick report of the day’s smaller crimes. These would go on page six, in a box unimaginatively called ‘The Crime Report’.

‘McClain.’ Baxter’s voice cut across the hum and buzz of the room.

‘Present.’ Harper lifted her hand.

Baxter marched over to her desk – her hair bone-straight, her angular features set in tight lines. She moved so fast her jacket swung around her thin frame when she stopped at Harper’s desk.

‘I had an agitated call from the deputy police chief this afternoon,’ she announced. ‘Seems you got too close to the action at that homicide last night. Is this true?’

As she spoke, the ambient noise in the room dipped subtly.

Harper leaned back in her chair, calculating her chances. Even after years at the paper, she found it impossible to tell when Baxter was really pissed off. The woman had to be a nightmare at the poker table.

‘I guess I did,’ she conceded. ‘That bullet missed me by inches.’

The room was very quiet now. DJ swiveled slowly around to watch.

Baxter’s hand dropped onto Harper’s shoulder in a movement that could either have been a pat or a punch.

‘Good work,’ she barked. ‘That’s what I like to see. Initiative.’

The noise in the room returned to normal.

‘Get me another front page like that and I’ll give you a raise.’ Baxter spoke loud enough to ensure the whole room could hear.

Behind her back, DJ gave Harper a thumbs up.

‘A raise? Isn’t that one sign of the apocalypse?’ Harper heard someone ask in a pseudo-whisper.

When the editor had returned to her desk, DJ slid closer.

‘That reminds me. I meant to tell you your story was awesome today,’ he said. ‘That picture, too.’ He shook his head. ‘You’ve got the best beat. I never get to write that hero shit.’

DJ was on the education beat. The most exciting thing he got to write about was a new dormitory at the college.

‘The hours suck,’ she pointed out kindly.

‘True.’ He spun around again and returned to his desk.

She didn’t know how he could do that so many times a day without making himself puke.

Harper’s copy of the day’s paper still lay on her desk. Idly, she picked it up. Miles’ photo took up most of the space above the fold, with her story running underneath it.

Because of the darkness, and the way Miles had widened the aperture so he could shoot at night without a flash, the photo looked almost black and white. The barrel of the gun was pointed right at the camera. Above the shooter’s bandanna, his young, jaded eyes stared at the reader with unconstrained loathing.

It was intimate. Intimidating. It grabbed you by the throat and demanded to be noticed.

‘Hell of a shot,’ she muttered.

Then she tossed the newspaper aside and got back to work.

Chapter Eight

That night was blessedly uneventful – Harper spent most of it at her desk, listening to the low rumble of the scanner and trying to stay awake.

At midnight, she went straight home and collapsed in bed. She was asleep in seconds.

The next day, she woke after noon, ravenous, the last remnants of the hangover finally gone.

Following a quick shower, and a scan of her emails, she headed out for breakfast. She was sitting alone in a red vinyl booth in Eric’s Diner eating one of the ‘fresh burgers’ advertised in vivid neon out front when Miles called.

Stuffing a French fry in her mouth, she hit the answer button.

‘What’s up?’ she asked.

‘I’m at a crime scene on Constance Street. I think you better get down here.’ His voice was low but intense.

‘What’ve you got?’

Even as she spoke, she was wrestling her scanner out of her bag; switching it on. A confusing tangle of police voices hissed into the air.

A man at a nearby table glanced over curiously and she turned it down.

‘Looks like homicide,’ Miles said. ‘A bad one. Everyone’s rolling out.’ He paused. ‘It’s a good street, Harper. Expensive houses. Fancy cars.’